Holmes is where the Hearth is
by PowerOfPens
Summary: Hades Lord of the Dead Christmas Writing Challenge is here again, and this year, I get to throw my hat into the ring! So get ready to have lots of seasonal fun, winter warmth and lovely friendship.
1. Chapter 1

Dec 1, from W. Y. Traveller: Blizzard

Mycroft lounged by the fire in his sitting room, occupying himself by reading the latest political updates in the Gazette, when he heard a ring at the bell. He was not expecting a visitor and the slow hesitant footfalls along the passage were familiar yet alien to him.

When the door opened, Mycroft Holmes thought for a second that his landlady had been careless in not bringing him a card or escorting this stranger to formally introduce him. The tall figure that loomed in the door was blanketed with snow. It took him a ten count to realize that the man was no stranger.

"Sherlock! What in heaven's name are you doing here?"

"A fine evening to you as well, Mycroft."

"Do not chastise me for my manners, for yours are often far more direct. Now, I wish to know why you thought it acceptable to entre my rooms under the guise of a yeti."

"I was surprised by the storm outside. I did not know where else to go."

Mycroft sighed. He rose and took a couple of thick quilts from a basket by the hearth. Laying one down by the fire, Mycroft motioned for Sherlock to sit on it and wrapped the other around his shoulders.

"That will be your position Sherlock, until you are more water than ice. Then you can go wash and dress in a fresh set of clothes."

Mycroft lowered himself back into his armchair and attempted to return to his reading. Yet hard as he tried, his eyes drifted to his brother, asking questions to which he could deduce no answers. Sherlock's eyes never left the fireplace.

The door swung open, interrupting his fruitless thought. Ms. Brown, his landlady bought in two mugs.

"I thought you boys might want to warm up with a hot drink."

She was invaluable as a landlady, as she always appeared to know exactly what Mycroft wanted.

"Thank you very much, Ms. Brown."

Sherlock showed his thanks by nodding. The saintly landlady did not appear offended and took her leave.

The brothers shared their drinks in silence.

"Why did you come here Sherlock?"

"I should have thought I was clear. I was caught off guard by the storm and in need of shelter."

"Yes, a singularly lucid statement. Yet I should consider it a falsehood."

"How do you think that?"

"You are wearing a muffler. You have not put on a piece of winter clothing without my insistence since we were boys. I therefore deduce, that you set out with the explicit intention to see me. Why? I cannot possibly imagine."

Sherlock was silent. Taking another sip of his drink and staring into the fire, Sherlock's eyes seemed more reflective than usual.

"Why did you come to me?"

"Father."

Mycroft tensed. The one word could explain so much. Their old man was funny and charismatic, yet he carried within him a deep hatred for his youngest son.

"What did he do to you Sherlock?"

In response, he reached into his pocket and brought out his card case.

"He left this for me when I was out."

Sherlock handed him a plain white card with no name. Someone had written in messy ink: You shall never find a home with the Holmes'.

"He does not speak for us Sherlock. It is intolerable that he should still torment you so. You know, I hope that you shall never forget, that he is not and never has been correct. Sheringford and I are your family and we do not need the confirmation of a doddering old fool to give you a home to return to."

"He is our Father."

"He is senile."

They sat in silence for a moment more, simply basking in the pleasure of companionship.

"Now, Sherlock. Can you manage to go wash without leaving my rooms dripping?"

"Yes." He stood to go get cleaned up, but at the door he turned. "Mycroft?"

"Yes, Sherlock."

"Thank you."

"No need. Now go before you soak my carpet."


	2. Chapter 2

Dec 2, Hades Lord of the Dead: Go to this link - (forward slash)random-songs(question mark)qty=1 - and write a response based on the song that is generated.Random song (Memories, Maroon 5)

Bradstreet drank to forget. In ordinary times, he was the most jovial man most at the Yard would ever lay eyes on. Built like an ox, he was strong enough though he had never been an exceptional fighter. He had the laugh to put people at ease, a deep hearty bellow. He could comfort and reassure. Yet, here he stood, in one of the seediest pubs of the city. Down here, the only thing keeping him alive was his impressive stature. No one need know he hadn't the faintest idea how to use it.

Bradstreet drank to forget, and yet with every swig, he could recall another memory. His common sense warned him of the danger in losing his reason in this place. He took another swig to dispel that invasive thought. Perhaps that was why he had come here. He had wanted the danger.

Yet when the door opened and a familiar man stepped into the pub, something sober in him awakened with fear. Stanley Hopkins was a small lad, and he looked to be as weak as they came. While Bradstreet would pity the man, who would start a fight with the lad, these sorts of men always did their work in gangs. Numbers could overwhelm the best fighters there were.

Hopkins strolled through the establishment, back strait as a rod, eyes hard, jaw set and found his seat on Bradstreet's left. He waved off the bartender who tried to offer him a drink.

"What 're you doing 'ere?" Bradstreet's voice was more slurred than he had expected.

"Making sure I don't have bury you tomorrow." Hopkins clipped his words, but he wasn't angry. Bradstreet had only ever seen him angry once, and it was not something a sane man would wish to experience. Hopkins sounded more like he was on edge and would not let his guard down. Smart boy.

"m fine."

"You're drunk. Why?"

"gin?"

"No. I want a real answer."

"ever think God d'not care bout us?"

"I see by gin; you mean a dozen gin. You've never seemed to question the lord before. The thought would never be spoken sober."

"you don't… pray."

"No, I don't. If God is out there, my good intentions should be enough to convince him of my worthiness, piety be dammed. This isn't about me however. Why are you drinking?"

"m forget things."

"What are you trying to forget?"

"god hates us."

Hopkins waited in silence, contemplating this drunk revelation. Lestrade had told him were Bradstreet would be found. Gregerson had told him to stay away if he had any sense. Jones had told him to carry a knife, if he really must go. Hopkins had no knife, but he knew how to hold himself. Stanley and Rodger had been friends growing up. The small smart one and the large happy one. They had kept each other safe. They knew each other as they knew themselves. So, when Lestrade said he had gone to a pub, Gregerson recounted his manor and Jones had described the crime scene, Stanley knew Rodger would need a hand to get home that night.

Bradstreet drank to forget, although it never worked.

Cause memories bring back memories.


	3. Chapter 3

Dec 3, From W. Y. Traveller: Lestrade discovers an important clue

The constables had not the faintest idea what to expect for their first time working with Inspector Lestrade. Allen and Myers were the two newest men on the beat, and they were a little afraid. Many said he was strict and cold, though he did not often lose his temper. Behind his back, there were rumors that he was unfit for service. Rumors exacerbated by the mocking tone Gregerson took regarding Lestrade's intelligence.

But the newest pair had little time to prepare themselves, because the Inspector himself swept into the room.

"Allen. Myers. You two are new, are you not?"

"Yes, sir." They chorused.

"This is an admirable training case. How would you boys handle a case such as this?"

Allen took the first try.

"Well, sir. The murdered victim is lying on the floor. No blood is visible. Pained facial expression. I would arrest the cook, clean up this room and leave."

Lestrade glanced at the cealing and muttered a prayer under his breath.

"Myers. Anything you want to add?"

"Well. I would agree, poison is the only explanation. Yet I believe my compagon might have been ramiss in arresting the cook. She would have no reason to complain for her position was secure and her pay magnificent. I would suggest the dead man's new wife. He was rich. She must have married him only to kill him and receive his vast fortune."

"Of course." Lestrade said. "Those are both obvious courses of action, if you want your criminal to walk free."

"Sir?"

"Have either of you constables properly conducted an examination of the body?"

Neither was stupid enough to answer.

"The criminal was not the cook or the new wife. It is publicly known that this man was previously engaged to a woman who was declared insane, and escaped custody. If you look here, the man's neck is indented with a peculiar pattern. Perhaps it may be familiar to you Allen. From the ring on your left hand I see that your wife once wore a similar garment. Our victim was strangled with a bridal veil. And here."

Lestrade knelt next to the body and opened the dead man's jaw. Inside his mouth was bloodied mangled mess.

"An engagement ring has been stuffed around his tongue. The Yard will have to redouble its efforts to catch Annie Webb."


	4. Chapter 4

Sorry this one is so short. I'm not feeling well today. Please tell me if I'm doing to much angst, or if you guys are ok with being sad.

Pop

Dec4, From mrspencil: a hazardous Christmas decoration

Dear John,

On the day of my writing, it is Christmas Eve. Now Johnny, I know you never did like making merry all that much. Yet you must make an allowance for me. The house is so terribly empty, with you gone. I have tried to decorate for the season. I must apoligise. As I brought out Mother's porcalin angel, tremors wracked my body and I dropped it. It has shattered. I am sorry, Johnny. I did not mean to. I am so sorry.

I thought of you as it fell. You are like my little angel, Johnny. I did not drop you to hard, did I?

I must go now; my nurse wishes to disinfect the cuts on my legs. I do not remember where they are from. Perhaps I collapsed on the angel.

I love you, little brother.

Hamish Watson


	5. Chapter 5

Dec 5:

Sherlock Holmes has always been impossible to shop for. His fluctuating interests and practical nature made finding the ideal gift quite hard to his friends, few as they may be. When such people made their attempts, they were often discouraged by his stoic reactions. Perhaps no gift could be ideal, but he certainly had received gifts which had touched his heart.

Mycroft was a young man of twenty-one, and in the throngs of that frustrating yearly exercise. Buying Sherlock, a Christmas gift. The fourteen-year-old boy was not in need of anything, apart perhaps from friends. Children could be so cruel. Sherlock tried to hide his injures, futile as that may be in the Holmes Household. Their father had been less than sympathetic. Yet when Mycroft heard the tune of a music box, from a nearby vender he felt so safe and comfortable that he knew what to buy.

Victor Trevor was sure he could never get his companion something appropriately to his taste. Holmes certainly had peculiar interests. He was currently at a fencing match at a rival university, giving Trevor time to search for a gift. Holmes loved all sorts of weapons, and so when Trevor saw a dagger with small indents on one side, he had to get it. Holmes would love to see a knife designed to break swords.

Lestrade gifted him a pocket watch.

Watson presented him with a record of a violinist he admired.

Gregerson gave him a manual of tropical poisons.

So many gifts, and though he may keep his reactions stoic, he always left them on display. As proof that he was touched.


	6. Chapter 6

Dec6:

Wiggins ran from a constable, breath coming with difficulty. He hadn't stolen anything, not this time, but the man on the beat had known him by sight. The boy wasn't sure if he should be ashamed or proud that he had never been caught. Then he ran into Sherlock Holmes, outside the door of a flat in an awful part of town. Wiggins was sure he was finaly caught when something unexpected occurred.

"Enter the house, boy. Quickly!"

Wiggins did as he asked. Holmes stalled the officer for a while. After the official man had disappeared, Holmes entered the house.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"That is my name, though I do fear you have the advantage of me."

"Wiggins."

"It's nice to meet you Wiggins."

There was the beginning of a very productive relationship.

"Wiggins."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes."

"You have been looking worn out of late. I think that you may want to rethink the distribution of tasks for the Irregulars."

"I am content to complete the work myself."

"Yet, you waste away under my eyes."

"Better me than the little ones. I do the work, keep them at home, and divide up my pay."

"Why should you do that, when the others are quite capable?"

"Because, it's a cold world out there Mr. Holmes."


	7. Chapter 7

"I am so bored. Jack Frost is so stupid." Sherlock groaned from his place on Mycroft's bed. The three Holmes brothers often gathered of an evening in Mycroft's room. It had to be there that they met, for that was the only way to ensure Mycroft would be present.

"Then why are you reading a collection of his stories?" Mycroft didn't glance up from his full desk of work to acknowledge his young brother's antics.

"My tutor assigned it to me. He says it will broaden my perspective. As if this idiotic drivel will do more than kill me though boredom. What a moron he must be to enjoy this rubbish!"

"For your information," Sheringford spoke from the settee, "I happen to rather enjoy them."

"As I was saying." Sherlock waved an arm in his general direction.

"Excuse me?"

"Sherlock does have a point." Mycroft interjected again.

"I have no doubt that in comparison to the two of you, I am very stupid. Yet it is not every boy who can read volumes in Latin by the age of fourteen or concoct clever chemical experiments by the age of seven. And so, I will suppose that I am at worst a very average fellow. If I can endure Mother fawning over the both of you or schoolmasters comparing me to my younger brothers, I don't suppose the two of you could refrain from insulting me for being very average, could you?" Sheringford stood for this outburst.

Even at the age of eighteen, he was an impressively built man. Nearly six foot five, with the chest and shoulders of a Hercules. His skin was many shades darker than his brothers, touched more by the sun. His eyes held none of the penetrating stare his brothers held, replaced by a twinkle of his boisterous good humor. Even now as he admonished his siblings, the grey depths of his eyes seemed to laugh at a joke that only they could hear.

"I'm sorry, Ford."

Many years after that night, on a cold December evening, Lord Holmes received a package with a note.

Dear Ford,

A talented client of mine could not afford to pay me for my services and offered in compensation to provide a personalised gift. I am sure you will find enjoyment from it.

Love,

Sherlock Holmes

The package was carefully unpacked and found to contain a spherical glass ornament. In the orb was the small delicate figure of a boy with white hair holding up a staff. Where the staff made contact with the outside, the glass had been had carved to resemble window frost.

Sheringford smiled as he placed this present on his mantle piece. Mrs. Holmes came into the room and smiled at her husband.

"A gift from you brother?"

"How could you know?" He pulled her into a hug.

"The stupid grin on your face. And who else among your acquaintances would get you such an ornament?"

"Why Penelope, you are as true a Holmes as ever I met."

**I know how late I am. I'm sorry. I've just been really busy. I went on a bit of a lightning round here, so sorry if the next few seem a little rushed. I know the deadline is past, but I promise I will finish eventually. Tell me what you guys think.**

**Pop**


	8. Chapter 8

Dec 8, Holmes and Watson pet sit a canary.

After the case of the murderous canary trainer, we were unfortunate enough to be left with the unfortunate animal. Thankfully, Holmes had wired to an acquaintance who would take the bird in their care.

"Watson, that irritating creature is driving me to insanity."

"What is it doing?"

"Don't act as if it does not bother you. It is maddening."

"I do not understand, Holmes."

"It is making such annoying whistling noises."

"Is that all?"

"All? It is all consuming."

"Well, I would say it is less so that your violin solos."


	9. Chapter 9

Dec 9, A Day in the Life of Mycroft Holmes.

This was the most painful day of Mycroft's life, for it had started with the message that Sherlock Holmes was dead.

8am. The post arrived.

Mycroft held between trembling hands the message Dr. Watson had sent him. He was grateful at least for the warning. It would not have done to be surprised by the news in the papers.

8:30 Breakfast at the Diogenes.

Mycroft felt for once how oppressive the silence of the club could be. He thought in the back of his mind how the stack of books Sherlock had borrowed from the club would have to returned.

9am. Meating with the Prime Minister.

PM gave his condolences which Mycroft could do nothing but nod at. He thought, as the meeting progressed to political strategy, that this man only mourned Sherlock as one might despair over a missed train. An incontinence, nothing more.

10am. Reading department reports.

Mycroft could not recall anything he read during that session.

12am. Lunch.

Mycroft found he could only pick at his food.

1pm. Meating with the Minister of Transport.

Mycroft could only hope that any advice he had given during that meeting had been ignored, for he was fairly sure it had been incoherent.

2pm. Interruption.

Sheringford burst into Mycroft's office. The big oaf was in tears. Mycroft sat numbly at his desk, waiting for his elder to reproach him for being able to continue working at a time like this. Instead the big guy dragged a visitor's chair next to Mycroft, sat, and embraced him. They sat for a long time.

2:30pm. Tears.

Safe in his brother's arms, Mycroft felt the numbness dispel as something started to bubble inside of him.

3pm…

Mycroft decided, that for once, he could simply end his day here.


	10. Chapter 10

Dec 10, a big blue box.

Toby's owner had been very sad when he had died. Not only had the dog been a good companion, but he had received some small compensation for lending him out to Mr. Holmes. Every year, the owner would receive a box in the post from the detective containing enough dog food to last well though half the year.

The year Toby died, his owner did not expect to receive anything from the detective, and yet, on the same date as every other year, a messenger from the Baker Street irregulars arrived. The boy, Wiggins, handed him a heavy blue box with air holes, before taking his leave a couple shillings richer.

Inside was a puppy, golden furred and large eyed, along with the usual shipment of dog food.

Dear Sir,

I hope this will lift your spirits in light of Toby's recent death.

Sincerely,

Sherlock Holmes.


	11. Chapter 11

Dec 11, Shakespeare.

"Shakespeare?"

"My eldest brother enjoyed it when I would read aloud to him. It started as part of my lessons, but we soon kept at it in a sort of compromise. I could borrow and read any of his books so long as I recited them aloud so that he could follow."

"You have another brother?"

"Yes, Sheringford, my eldest brother. He is rather an idiot, but he has a good heart."

"And he is partial to Shakespeare?"

"I must have recited his favorite book of sonnets a hundred times or more."

"He must have had books that were more to your liking. Why did you not vary your reading more?"

"You have never seen my brother happy before, or you would not ask. Sheringford has the most contagious joy of any man I have met on earth."


End file.
